


Methos Chronicles

by Helis_von_Askir



Series: Methos Chronicles [1]
Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 09:46:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18247340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helis_von_Askir/pseuds/Helis_von_Askir
Summary: Just my take on those web episodes from forever ago.





	Methos Chronicles

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't owe Highlander, I don't make any money with it. I just borrow them for a bit.

**Methos Chronicles**  
Entering his hotel room, Methos shook the water out of his coat. Tokyo wasn’t one of his favorite cities to begin with and the weather wasn’t improving his opinion of the place. It had been raining for the last three days nonstop. Methos could remember a time and place when he, like everyone else, had prayed for rain. When he still had believed that the gods actually gave a damn. He was wiser now, but he didn’t like the weather any better because of it.  
It had been a long day. Negotiating with Japanese was always a dance full of tradition and protocol. They never said what they really thought or wanted, always trying to keep you guessing. But two could play that game. Methos had made sure that they didn’t realize that he spoke Japanese fluently like a native. Advantaged were there to be sued in his opinion. He enjoyed the whole thing very much, but it was exhausting. But he got what he wanted. How and where he lost his journal he no longer remembered, probably when the Shogun decided that he didn’t want any foreigners in his realm anymore and Methos had to get the hell out of there, before things really got unpleasant. It didn’t matter, really, it was back in his possession. The Watchers had made an offer for the book too, but he would be damned if he let them have it. They knew too much about him already. He had always known that joining them in the twentieth centuries had been more dangerous than ever before, but he had wanted, and needed, a safe place form where to keep an eye on the Game, besides, they had approached him this time, not the other way round, though he might have stirred them in his direction.  
Carefully, he put the old book in his suitcase and then headed for the little bathroom. A long hot shower was exactly what he needed now. The water was scalding hot and he stayed under the spray until he felt awake once again. Hot showers were one of the best inventions ever as far as he was concerned. When he thought about how little personal hygiene had mattered to people in the past he had to shudder. It had been one of the best things the Romans had ever come up with, regular baths, accessible to everyone.  
He changed into fresh clothes and went down to the hotel’s restaurant. He was starving. After placing his order he absentmindedly leafed through an international newspaper and listened to the mounted TV with half an ear. His real focus was on his surroundings. He was not expecting any trouble, but it was always better to keep an eye on everything, you never knew.  
When his food arrived he thanked the waitress and dug in. The restaurant served what Americans considered Japanese food, which hadn’t much to do with the real thing, but right now Methos would have eaten haggis, if that was what had been put in front of him. He had missed breakfast and lunch today. He was finishing up dessert when he noticed a news block come on. An excited young man reported upon the spectacular find in a dig at what once had been an oasis at the border of Egypt. A tomb had been unearthed containing a sarcophagus in pristine condition. The age was estimated to be around four thousand years. With unknown writing all over it. An elderly archeologist speculated about how the sarcophagus came to be there and that the writings were probably prayers to protect the deceased in the afterlife.  
Prayers, Methos thought derisively, once he had gotten over his surprise and a first surge of panic. Those are not prayers, you imbecile, those are curses.  
The reporter finished with the news that the sarcophagus would be taken to the Semitic Museum at Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts, for further study.  
Methos forced himself to stay calm and finish his dinner. They had found and dug him up after all these years. That was not good. But they hadn’t opened the damned thing yet and wouldn’t do so until it was in the US. There was still time to fix this before it all went south. He knew he should have ended it all four thousand years ago, but he hadn’t been in a very charitable mood back then.

Oasis near the border of Egypt, ca. 2.000 BC  
“Methos, Methos, father says he wants to talk with you.” Ten-year old Mathaias called over to the Immortal who was sitting in the meager shadow of a rock overhang. Methos smiled at the young boy and stoop up. Mathaias’ father, Sindad, was the leader of this tribe, a sunburned sixty-year old man, still walking proud and erect. Methos could count on one hand the number of people over fifty summers that weren’t immortal that he had encountered in the thousands of years of his life. When he had first come to the tribe, Sindad had sat at his father’s feet, barely ten summers old, learning how to lead and govern his people.  
Soon after his arrival his immortality had been revealed during an attack by another nomad tribe. But instead of running him off as happened so often in the past, they had embraced him for what he was. In the last decades he had become something of a good luck charm to the tribe. With is knowledge in healing, fighting and trading he had brought wealth and good health to the tribe. The families often offered him their daughters for blessing before their marriages and sometimes even their sons. He knew better than to offend them by sending them away without the blessing they wanted for their children. Most called him En-Manket, Son of the Sun, because as the sun didn’t burn his skin, he had to be a child of the sun. No one else they had ever encountered had skin as light as his, all of them being of dark skin.  
Methos was not his real name either. It was a form of one had been given many centuries ago. His own name was now only known to him and one other, who would never utter it. They both knew that names held power and that it was most dangerous to give that power to others.  
“What does father want, did he say?” Methos asked. He had married Sindad’s youngest daughter a season past to stay a true member of the tribe and Sindad’s immediate family. That way Sindad made certain that Methos kept a personal stake in the tribe’s future. A wily old man, that one. The tribe had given him several of their daughters in the past, but always older ones, too old to bear children anymore, he could not sire any, the tribe knew that.  
“No, but there are men coming and father wants us all there.” Mathaias told him excitedly.  
“Then let’s hurry,” they both went back to the tribes resting place at the oasis quickly. From some distance away he could see the sand and dust could the strangers created. He estimated them to be of at least two dozen in number if not more. Methos had a bed feeling about this. He had told Sindad that coming into the land of Kemet could be dangerous. He had been here before and there had been many fights to bring the tribes and villages along the Hapi under one rule. It had gone one for decades and even after that had been accomplished there were always conspiracies going on in the court and temples. If Methos had been alone he wouldn’t have minded staying here, but with the tribe to consider he would have preferred to only send a handful of men with their goods to the markets and keep the rest of the tribe safely away. But it was not his decision.  
“Father, do you know who is coming?” Methos asked when he joined his wife’s father in front of the family’s tent. The others were already waiting there, not drawing their weapons but having them close.  
“Not, but most likely it is someone who wishes to trade with us.” Sindad replied calmly, but Methos could read the nervousness in the mortal man’s eyes.  
“I hope you are right, father,” Methos murmured.  
“I hope so too, son. I hope so too.”

They were not traders but a hunting party, a royal hunting party. Their leader Prince Djoser had come to this part of the realm on his brother’s behest, to squash a rebellion in one of the larger cities. Pharaoh Djer had come to the throne not two seasons ago and was still securing his position. After he was done with his work Djoser had decided that he had earned himself a little treat and ordered a lion hunt to be held.  
All this Djoser cheerfully told to Sindad and Methos at the impromptu meal they had organized for their high-ranking visitor.  
One look at him and Methos knew that the prince was not the Pharaoh’s brother by birth. As with another Immortal there was a sensation Methos could feel at his approach, but not nearly as strong. Djoser had not yet died his first death. It had taken Methos a long time to realize these things, as for him there had never been a teacher as he now sometimes was to others. He had to learn everything he hard way. And he had come to the conclusion that it was better not to tell such people with they would become one day. To let them live their lives in blissful ignorance.  
It would have been dangerous to say something anyway. He had no way of knowing if the prince knew that he had been taken in and not born to the royal family. Such a revelation could be taken as an insult and end in bloodshed.  
Once the meal was finished Djoser and his men resumed the hunt. The young prince wanted to get his hands desperately on one of the desert lions. It would be quite the trophy to bring back to his brother.  
“Why do you look so worried, husband?” Methos asked him as they watched the hunters disappear into the desert again.  
Methos shrugged and turned to his wife. “It is nothing, Meret. I just feel like we haven’t seen the last of the prince.”  
“And you thing that is a bad thing? He did not seem cruel to me.” Meret said and took his hands. “Come, let me distract you from your brooding thoughts.”  
Smiling Methos followed her to their tent.  
Meret was not yet twenty summers old, but she knew him so well. As he sank into her heat she ran her fingernails over his back, hard enough to make him hiss. He never raised his hand at her, he never needed to, he like her the way she was, but he himself enjoyed a bit of pain in his coupling.

Tokyo, Japan, Present Day  
Methos shook of the memories that had started haunting him since he had learned that Djoser had been dug up. They had been buried deeply with him, as deep as Djoser himself, and not bothering him, unlike some other memoires. It had started out so well between Djoser and him, they had become friends and confidants once the prince had died his first death and Methos had become his teacher. And it all had ended in such a disaster.  
All the flight from Tokyo to Boston had been spent with coming up with a plan to get to the sarcophagus unseen. He had some ideas but he needed to do some scouting before he could decide on a course of action. He picked up his bags from the carousel at the Boston airport and hurried outside. It was snowing heavily and the old Immortal had to wait a while until he could get a taxi and take him to his hotel. Harvard hadn’t changed all that much since he was here the last time. Cars instead of horses and a few other details, but mostly it had kept its old charm.  
After a quick shower in his hotel room, Methos booted up his laptop and started his planning in earnest. He could not let Djoser live, he had been mentally unstable before he had been put into the sarcophagus, four thousand years in it wouldn’t have improved him in any way. But it was more than that, Djoser would assume that he was still the Pharaoh of Kemet, he would not and could not understand how the situation had changed in the past four millennia. And that attitude could only lead to trouble.

Cambridge, USA  
Humming quietly to herself, Dr. Murron Cross took photos of the old sarcophagus in front of her from all angles she could think off. This was her great chance and she would be damned if she blew it because of some little oversight. The sarcophagus had arrived two days ago and she had been near ecstatic when Professor Beltmann had told her that he wanted her as his assistant on this. He had said that they would start with their work in earnest tomorrow, but Murron couldn’t help herself and decided to at least get a little work done tonight. And now that the others had left for the day, she had the quiet to do it properly. The last two days were spent with dealing the Red Tape, making sure the paperwork was in order before they were even allowed into spitting distance of the sarcophagus. The new Egyptian government was even more paranoid about these things then the old one. As if they didn’t have enough other problems to take care of.  
With a tired sigh, Murron put the camera down and downloaded all the photos she had taken onto the computer. Some strands of her blond hair fell forward into her face and she pushed them back behind her ears annoyed. She should get a haircut soon, but she kept putting off having way too much work and far too little free time. Maybe she would make time after the study of the sarcophagus was done. Then she would get a new hair color too. Then hopefully people would stop calling her Barbie and start taking her seriously. She hated the fact that people thought she was stupid just because shew as blond and good-looking. It was demeaning and it annoyed her that she had to prove herself time and again.  
As usual since she had started to work here, she was the absolutely last one to leave. It was nearly midnight when she finally shut down the computer. Grabbing her coat and bad she made her way out of the building and across the deserted parking lot. Her car stood on the other end of it, and walking across it in the dark always gave her the creeps. Todd, the night guard, had offered to walk her to her car before, but he was asleep by the time she finished her work on most days and she didn’t have the heart to wake him, so she braved the way herself. At the car she started to search for her car keys, but even after dumping its contents on the hood, she didn’t find them.  
Which meant they were probably still lying on her desk in the lab. With an annoyed sigh, she repacked her bag and hurried back into the building. “Figures,” she muttered under her breath. All she had wanted to do was to go home and take a long soak in the bathtub. Now she had to delay that for at least an hour. Because she had to disarm and then arm parts of the alarms manually for her to get in and out. It was a pain in the backside, but it was either that or taking a cab home, and that she couldn’t afford.

Methos gave a relieved sigh when he saw the lights go out in the museum. He stood up from his observation point on a nearby roof and silently made his way down. He had discarded with his long coat and Ivanhoe for the occasion and wore a slim Chinese sword in a sheath on his back. The Ivanhoe was a good sword but for tonight it was too heavy and unwieldy. He had decided on keeping it simply: get in, open the sarcophagus, get Djoser out and take him somewhere no one would notice the Quickening, take his head, get rid of the body. Should be a cakewalk. And it helped that the security in this place was laughable in his opinion. Oh, sure, for a normal burglar it would be difficult enough, but Methos could give Amanda a run for her money when it came to B&E. Not that he was ever going to tell her that. She would insist on a competition, with MacLeod as the judge.  
Shaking off the irrelevant thought, Methos entered the museum silently. He had been here only yesterday to get a feeling for the layout. He had ended up in a tight spot more than once, because someone’s blueprint had proven slightly different than the reality. It was always better to get your information first hand. And a little digging had shown that they only had one security guard on duty during the night, on overweight drunk who forgot to make his rounds half the time. But otherwise a nice guy, he was sure.  
The lab with Djoser’s sarcophagus was downstairs in the cellar. For stable temperatures and added security, at least that’s what it said on the homepage. Well, they could scratch the whole security thing after he was done, that was for sure.  
Once in the lab, Methos stood before the old stone slab. It had passed the times in an excellent condition. But then it had been buried under tons of sand for thousands of years. Even the little temple over it had been gone for the longest time. There had been occasions when he had thought about digging Djoser up himself. When he thought that he could mend things with the younger Immortal, that they could forgive each other for what they had done. But then the faces of his tribe would come back to him and also Djoser’s expression when he had told Methos what he had done and why, and he knew that it was not to be. They had been his family for nearly sixty years, never judging him, never shunning him because he was so different, and Djoser had taken that away from him in a fit of jealousy.

Waset, ca. 2.000 BC  
The two seemingly young men were circling each other wearily in the shaded courtyard. But only one was truly the age he looked, the other was far older, but looked just as young as the Pharaoh. They were not alone. The Pharaoh of Kemet was never alone, not even in his private rooms. A dozen guards, slaves and several of Djoser’s wives and children were watching fascinated as their young king fought with the nomad that had come to the palace nearly two years ago.  
Methos watched his student Djoser closely. The young Immortal had learned a lot in the last two years, since he had died his first death, since Methos had taken up his offer of a visit and became his teacher. But there were still some things Djoser didn’t know, tricks that most would consider less than honorable, but tricks that had kept Methos alive for a long time. With a few quick moves he had Djoser disarmed and his sword at the younger man’s throat. He held it there for a second longer before taking a step back and sheathing his weapon.  
“I think that’s enough for today. You did very good.” Methos said and went to the little table where wine was waiting for them. One of the palace slaves poured him a cup and gave him an inviting look. Methos took the cup but shook his head to the invitation. Disappointed the young woman returned to her place by the wall.  
“Then why am I the one who ended up without a sword?” Djoser asked. He let himself fall onto one of the stools and closed his eyes in exhaustion. One of his wives brought him a cup of wine and some food.  
“Because you are young and still need to get some experience in these kind of things. Don’t worry, I’m sure your Kushite neighbors are going to give you ample opportunity to learn.” Methos replied. It was an old conflict over the little fertile land along the shores of the Hapi, especially in the far south. Both sides claimed the land for themselves and were warring over it since before Methos could remember. The names of the people who did the fighting changed over the centuries, but the rest stayed the same.  
‘”Well, I hope so, Methos. It is high time that I prove my worth to my people. It has been far too peaceful for my liking.” Djoser drained the cup and his wife refilled it to the brim. Someone wanted to get laid to night. Methos was worried about his student’s fondness for too much wine. They did not stay drunk long, but still. It made him more aggressive than was good for him and more than one slave and woman from the harem bore the marks to prove it. Maybe a real battle in the unforgiving desert would cure him of that affliction. Only time would tell.

That evening, Methos received word that his tribe had arrived in Waset again. They had been traveling without him for the last two years, with frequent stops in Kemet. Having one of them as teacher and confident of the Pharaoh made for good trading. Grabbing his sword and cloak, Methos left the palace and made his way to the tribes camping place.  
Meret was already waiting for him. She alternated traveling with the tribe and staying with Methos in Waset. It was hard for her to be separated from one or the other, but she understood how important it was to have and to keep the Pharaoh’s friendship.  
“I have missed you very much, husband,” she told him as he took her into his arms.  
“I have missed you too, wife.” He whispered into her ear.  
Meret hit him playfully on the arm. “With all the pretty salve girls and boys running around the palace, I doubt it.”  
“No, it is true. You are the only one for me. I have not even looked at all the pretty girls and boys.” Methos assured her. And he hadn’t, not really. Not that they weren’t pretty, Djoser had good taste in slaves, but Methos somehow wasn’t interested. For now he only wanted to be with Meret. Maybe he was getting soft in his old age, because he had never before been content with only one partner for so long. Well, once, but he was not sure Lilith counted as a woman, she was after all a goddess of incredible power before anything else.  
“Then how do you know they are pretty?” Meret wanted to know as she led him to the fire over which dinner was being cooked by the women.  
He wisely did not answer that question.  
They sat down next to Sindad and Mathaias, who was still growing like weed, and for the next hour they exchanged stories about what had happened since they had last seen each other.  
“Have you decided how long you will continue to stay here with the Pharaoh, son?” Sindad asked when they finished their dinner.  
“Yes, I have, father. Djoser doesn’t need me anymore, not really. If you will still have me, I will depart with you this time. I will tell the Pharaoh tomorrow.” Methos told his wife’s father. Truthfully, he could have left with them the last time they had been in Waset. He had planned to do so, but Djoser had asked him to stay, claiming to still needing him. And Methos had allowed the young Immortal to convince him. Living in a palace was a lot more comfortable than in a small tent in the middle of the desert, but he was beginning to miss the freedom the nomad life offered. This time, Djoser would not talk him out of going with is family.  
“I am glad to hear it, Methos. We have sorely missed you these last two years.” Sindad said content that his son would be with them again.  
“I have missed you all too.” Methos replied and laid his arms around Meret who smiled up at him with a promise in her eyes. He didn’t expect to get much sleep tonight, hoped, really.

“No, you cannot go! I forbid it!” Djoser raged. Methos had just told him that it was time for him to leave Waset, to take up the wandering life again. The young Pharaoh was not reacting in the way Methos had hoped.  
“With all due respect, Pharaoh Djoser, I am not one of your subjects. You cannot forbid me to rejoin my people.” Methos replied with forced patience.  
“They are not your people!” Djoser shouted. “I am your people. We belong together, Methos. Forget that tribe, they will be gone soon enough.” He pleaded.  
Methos shook his head. “You have learned from me all I can teach, you don’t need me anymore. But I need them. You are young, Djoser, you do not yet understand what they mean to me.” He was trying to make Djoser see that this was not a slight against him. They were friends, yes, but he needed his mortal family again. Methos turned around and walked towards the exit of Djoser’s private gardens.  
Suddenly there was a sharp pain in his back and his legs no longer supported him. As he collapsed he saw Djoser come around him, a bloody knife in his hand. Methos tried to get away but Djoser knelt over him and brought the knife down again, hitting him in the chest.

With a painful breath, Methos came back to life. He was still in the garden in which he had told Djoser that he would be leaving, but now he was alone. He could see the sun setting over the palace walls. Under a litany of curses Methos got to his feet, his once white clothes bloodied and stiff. He was surprised that he had not been locked up. He had obviously misjudged Djoser on more than one account.  
His sword was still at his side and wasting no more time, he climbed the garden walls, not wanting to risk the guards to see him and try to stop him. The entire palace and city were strangely deserted. But he had no time to dwell on that, he had to get to his tribe. The moment he had woken up, he had felt a terrible foreboding.  
When he came to the tribe’s camp, his worst fears were confirmed. They were dead, all of them, even the animals had been slaughtered. He went from one body to the next, hoping, praying, to find someone who yet lived. Finally, he came across Meret’s body. Her sightless eyes stared up at him in silent accusation. Her throat had been cut. Methos fell to the ground and gathered his wife in his arms, holding her tight. Despite his best intentions he had grown to love her and now she was gone before she should have. Her life would have been so short anyway, but to have it cut even shorter like this. A primal cry welled up in Methos’ throat, and he shouted his grief, his anger, up into the heavens for all the gods to hear and shudder in fear.  
He sat like this the whole time, only moving when some animals came closer to see if they could get some food out of the carnage, throwing stones and curses after them. He knew that he couldn’t stay here any longer, that he couldn’t bury them all, but he wasn’t ready to let them go just yet. No, he wanted to stay with them, they were his family.  
When the sun rose, Methos felt the telltale presence of another Immortal crawling up his spine. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was Djoser, having come back to admire his work.  
“Go away,” he growled at the younger Immortal. Methos didn’t want to talk to him, he wanted to bury his sword in the other man’s gut, he wanted to hurt him as Djoser had hurt him. And to think he had called the Pharaoh his friend.  
“I did it for us, Methos. They would have kept you for themselves, but they were not worthy of you. Now we can stay together forever and can build a strong Kemet that no one will ever defeat. We will rule until the end of time, my friend.” Djoser said behind him. His voice bright, happy even. It only enraged Methos more.  
“You are no friend of mine.” Methos hissed. Carefully, he put Meret’s body down on the ground and stood up. He faced Djoser, who took an involuntary step back when he saw the other man’s face. “They were my family, they mattered to me! Kemet does not. It can go down in flames for all I care.” And before Djoser could react Methos drew his blade and rammed it into Djoser’s chest. The young man dropped to the ground clutching at the weapon sticking from his body.  
Methos didn’t hesitate. He picked up Meret and left with her cradled in his arms. The nomads had been born in the depth of the desert and while he couldn’t return all of them, at least his beloved Meret would get a resting place as her people’s tradition demanded. Not here in the lush land along the shores of the Hapi, but in the dunes of the desert, becoming one with the spirits of her ancestors. Without looking back, he walked into the sea of sand.

He had buried Meret in the desert, observed the rituals as they had been taught to him, her spirit was at peace. But his wasn’t. The anger, the agony was still surging through him, threatening to drown him and Methos wasn’t sure he had the will to fight against it. He left his wife’s last resting place and wandered through the desert for days until he ran out of water, then his feet took him back to Waset and the palace. Djoser had to pay for what he had done, and he would pay with his head.  
Methos waited until night had fallen before making his way back into the palace. Djoser would be in the harem at this time, choosing the woman who would share his bed that night. He avoided the servants and guards with ease.  
When he entered the complex of rooms reserved for the women and children there was to his surprise no music, no laughter. The women were sitting on the floor their head shorn wailing incoherently.  
It took Methos a second to catch on. They believed Djoser to be truly dead. Of course, neither of them had ever even got hurt in front of the mortals. The first lesson Methos had taught Djoser, so the mortals might not learn how to kill them permanently. But Djoser should have woken by now. Not even the weakest of their kind stayed dead for days. That could only means one thing: They already had taken Djoser to be prepared for his funeral, which meant mummification. Now there was an unpleasant thought. One Methos liked better and better the longer he contemplated it. What a fitting punishment, being buried alive for all eternity. Yes, he liked that thought very much. All Methos had to do was to make sure no one would ever dare to open his grave again.  
Because of his untimely death, Djoser’s grave was still far from complete. Therefore his successor, one of his generals, as his sons were all far too young, had decided to bury him in a newly built temple at an oasis deep in the desert. Far enough away to not be reminded of him every day, yet opulent enough to be somewhat fitting for a pharaoh. When Methos arrived at the temple, the workers had just transported the sarcophagus inside. As he was known as the late pharaoh’s friend, even if they had a little fall-out, they didn’t dare to stop Methos from entering. No one seemed to know that it had been him who had killed Djoser. He sent them away, assuring them that he would seal the burial chamber once he had taken his leave of his friend.  
He immediately went to work, covering first the sarcophagus then the walls of the chamber with curses in only one night. Most people wouldn’t dare to open the chamber anyway, but there were always some grave robbers foolish enough to try. At least this should keep them from opening the sarcophagus itself. Methos didn’t care if they took what treasure was piled in the antechamber. Djoser wouldn’t have need of them anymore.

Present Day  
Djoser’s imprisonment had dispelled some of Methos’ anger and hate, not all of it, not by a long shot. After sealing the burial chamber he had started his wanderings again, alone again. But it hadn’t stayed that way. Only a few months after the death of his tribe, Methos had met other Immortals, some became students, some friends, come enemies, some all three.  
Methos shook off the thoughts and concentrated on what he was here to do. The little crane was already in place to lift off the lid of the sarcophagus, all Methos had to do was adjust the straps and then turned the thing on. The machine was louder than Methos would have liked, but it did the job well enough. Once the lid was gone, Methos saw Djoser lying there, the bandages into which he had been wrapped mostly rotted away. Djoser himself looked relatively well, considering he had been in there for four thousand years, but he was, of course, quiet dead. And Methos planned on him staying that way until it was time to take his head. For that purpose he had brought a dagger along, and he was about to ram it into Djoser’s chest when he heard a gasp behind him. He whirled around and came face to face with a young woman. Well, damn!  
“Who the hell are you?” The woman asked surprised and quite a bit frightened. Methos couldn’t blame her. She had come unexpectedly across an unknown man in a locked museum, brandishing a dagger in his hand. He could count himself lucky that she hadn’t run out screaming at the top of her lung. That would have brought even the single sleepy guard down here, and though the man was alone and had to walk the entire museum, he was also armed and getting shot was something he really hoped to avoid.  
Methos sighed. So much for his plan. “Well, that’s kind of hard to explain. It would be better for you to just turn around and leave, Dr. Cross.”  
“How do you know my name?” she asked. Now she sounded terrified. Just great, Old Man, he thought to himself. You really have a hand with the ladies.  
“It’s written rather prominently on your security pass, Doctor. Though I have to say this isn’t a very flattering photo.” Methos replied. He needed to get her out of here before Djoser came to. Having her witness a resurrection would do nothing to calm her down.  
Cross grabbed the security pass handing around her neck and took a step backwards. “You’re here to steal some artifacts, aren’t you? That won’t work. Security is on its way.”  
Methos knew she was bluffing, he had studied the pattern of the rounds the lone security guard did, if he did them at all. The rest was security cameras that, that he had hacked before entering. Mortals these days relied too much on their technical toys in his opinion, probably because it was so much cheaper than to keep a dozen qualified guards on staff and pay.  
But before he could do anything one way or other about the good doctor, like locking her in a cupboard, he felt Djoser’s Quickening grow and slam into his. He had revived. Some of the gods, Methos had stopped believing in millennia ago, really had it out for him tonight. He should have stayed in Tokyo.  
With a gasp Djoser sat up in the open sarcophagus. Cross let out a high-pitched screech and Methos drew his sword, no time to get to the gun tucked into the back of his pants, hidden from sight.  
“You!” Djoser hissed in ancient Egyptian and stood up, because of the elevated position of the sarcophagus towering over Methos and Cross. “You will pay for what you did to me, you traitor!” The, for him, strange environment didn’t even seem to register with him.  
“I didn’t betray you, Djoser. I never swore fealty to you. Your long sleep must have addled your mind.” Methos replied in the same language. By the look on Cross’ face she didn’t understand anything of what had just been said, or it was still the shock of seeing the dead rise, Methos didn’t know, nor did he care at the moment. She had seen too much as it was.  
With an enraged shout Djoser jumped out of the sarcophagus and onto the floor. Startled Cross took a step backward and so drew his attention to her. He grabbed her and held her against his body, his hands around her neck. For someone who had spent the last four millennia locked up in a stone box he was damn fast. “One move, Methos, and she dies.”  
Methos shrugged. “Fine by me.” He didn’t necessarily wanted her to die, but at the moment she was standing in his way, and if Djoser took her out, so be it. Unlike some stubborn Scots, he didn’t feel the compulsion to save every pretty face that came his way.  
“You cannot fool me, Methos. She is yours, why else would she be here?” Djoser stated. And from his point of view it was a logical conclusion. Why would a woman be here with him if she weren’t his? To him, women had no other reason to exist outside of mother and wife. Yes, emancipation wouldn’t be a concept Djoser would be familiar with.  
“Whatever you guys are talking about, can you do it without killing me?” Cross asked. Her fear was evident to the old Immortal, but she didn’t allow it to paralyze her. Good, he could work with that.  
“Hit him with your elbow, Dr. Cross.” Methos instructed her calmly.  
“What?”  
“He doesn’t understand a word we say. Now, hit him before he figures out that you are not use to him as a hostage.” Methos said still in the same calm voice as if the was talking about the weather. He could see Djoser’s eyes narrow. He knew he was talked about, but he didn’t know what they were saying and that made him even angrier.  
Cross finally got it and first stepped on Djoser’s toes, hard and followed with her elbow into his stomach. When Djoser doubled over she scrambled away, but not fast enough. His hand hit her across her head and she stumbled forward, hitting her head on one of the tables on her way down. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she lay unmoving on the floor.  
Methos didn’t have the time to check if she was still alive. Djoser had grabbed one of the pipes lying around, who let pipes lay around in an archeological lab anyway, and swung it at the other Immortal. Methos blocked the wild swings and the fight was on.

Deflecting a blow to his head, that would have in all likelihood broken his neck, Methos silently cursed immortal regeneration. That and the fact that Djoser was pissed like h ell, which gave him strength that he normally wouldn’t have. His blows were quick and brutal. Luckily, Methos had spent the last four thousand years learning every trick in the book while Djoser did his impression of Sleeping Beauty and he always had been an average fighter. Not that it showed at the moment. Having only limited space in the lab to fight, Methos had let Djoser drive him back out through the hallways and stairs to the main hall of the museum. The old Immortal tried not to think about the damage they were causing on the way there.  
Only there did he take the offensive, seeing that Djoser was slowly tiring. He needed to end this now, before the night guard or Cross made an appearance. He was in enough trouble with that woman as it was. With a snarl he showed this thoughts away, they were only distracting him form the matter at hand.  
The two immortals exchanged vicious blows, both of them covered in their blood even as their wounds repaired themselves nearly as fast as they were inflicted. Both waiting for the other to make the first mistake.  
When it finally happened, Methos nearly missed it. Djoser stumbled and for only the fraction of a second his guard was down too far. Methos swung his sword just in time and the blade cut straight through the other man’s neck. Djoser’s body remained standing for another second, than it collapsed onto the floor, the head coming to a stop a couple of feet away from the rest of the body.  
In the strange lull between beheading and Quickening, Methos saw Cross standing on the gallery above the main room, staring down at him. It seemed she had never seen someone lose his head before. Tough luck. But Methos couldn’t concern himself with the mortal woman right now. The white mist rose from Djoser’s still form and settled onto Methos. And then all he knew was the excruciating pain and pleasure of the Quickening.  
When his senses returned to him, Methos was kneeling on the floor, panting hard, casting off the last vestiges of Djoser’s Quickening. Forcing the memories into the depths of his mind where they belonged, he breathed deeply, relaxing his hurting muscles. Only when he staggered to his feet shakily did he notice that the entire building was on fire. Not good. He had some really bad experiences with being burnt.  
Using his sword as a crutch, Methos stumbled to the front door. Screw the alarms, if they hadn’t gone off by now, they weren’t worth their money.  
He had just reached the door when he remembered Dr. Cross. She had been on the balustrade and he hadn’t noticed her running like hell when the light-show started. Mortals nowadays just didn’t know when to leave. It would be so easy, just leave and let fate take its course.  
With a sigh, he turned around and made his way back to the stairs that led up. He found Cross lying only a couple of feet away from the top stair. Something had hit her across the forehead, probably some of the smaller exhibits on display up here, lifted up by the Quickening and thrown around. Methos knelt down and checked for a pulse, being hit twice on the head with enough force to know her out both times was not a good thing. He should get her to a hospital for some x-rays or something like that.  
Muttering under his breath about mortal stupidity and his own, he returned his sword to the scabbard on his back and picked up the unconscious woman. This was all MacLeod’s fault. If not for that holier-than-thou Highlander Methos wouldn’t care if she lived or died. He always knew that kid had had a bad influence on him.  
On leaving the building, Methos could hear sirens in the distance. Obviously, someone had noticed what was going on and called the police, because aside from the fire raging behind him in the building, the museum was dark. The light-show had taken out the lights, how was that for a pun?  
Methos shook his head in disgust at that thought and laid Cross down on one of the park banks in front of the museum. He needed some food, a long shower and a bed, preferably in that order. That girl could take care of herself now that he had dragged her out of immediate bodily harm. With a look around to see if anyone was there, he hurried away. Getting caught outside a burning museum with an unconscious woman was a sure way to spend the rest of his stay in a prison cell. He doubted the police would give her too hard a time on the other hand, after all, it was quite obvious that she was a victim here, what with a bleeding head wound and a severe concussion and all. Before he could change his mind and do something heroic and stupid, he vanished in the dark of the night.

With a groan, Murron woke up. Her head was killing her and her mouth tasted as if something had crawled in and died there a while back. It took her a long moment to realize that she was not suffering from the mother of all hangovers. Her mind was still sluggish, but it came all back to her. The man in the museum, the dead man not being quite as dead as he should have been, the fight, the lightning and the fire. And being knocked out twice. No wonder her head felt as if it was about to explode.  
Slowly, she opened her eyes. The room she was in was dark but she could make out enough to see that she was in a hospital. How had she gotten out of the museum? After the fire broke out, she couldn’t remember anything.  
“Dr. Cross, good to see you awake. How do you feel?” a woman in the door asked. She wore scrubs and a friendly smile. Murron assumed that she was a nurse or doctor.  
“Headache.” She groaned, even the light coming in from the hallway hurt her eyes.  
“Yes, that is to be expected. I’ll give you something against that.” She came in and injected something into the IV connected to the back of Murron’s left hand. After a few moments the pain in Murron’s head receded noticeable. “Better?”  
Murron nodded and closed her eyes thankfully for a moment. “How long have I been out?” she asked. It couldn’t be still the same night, could it?  
“Since yesterday night. You woke up now and then but you were pretty out of it.” The doctor whose nametag read Miller told her. “The police is waiting outside, they want to talk to you about what happened. You feel up to it?”  
Murron really didn’t feel up to anything, but she doubted that there was a way out of it so she nodded. While the doctor left top get the cops, Murron thought about what to tell them. Not the truth, that would get her a straightjacket and a stay in the closed ward. The whole I-don’t-remember-a-thing-routine sounded good, but she wasn’t sure the cops were going to buy it. She would have to see.  
“Dr. Cross, I’m Detective Benner and this is Detective Kowalski, we only have a few questions for you, then we’re out of your hair.” The balding black man who came in said. He was followed by his partner, an overweight white man. They were both in their late fifties, and it showed.  
“Sure, I hope I can help.” Murron sat up a little bit straighter in her bed. Lying down while these two men were standing over her felt intimidating, which was probably the idea of the whole set up.  
“Why were you at the museum this late in the night?” Benner asked.  
“I wanted to make a start on the sarcophagus. We finally got all our permits together.” Murron sighed. “Anyway, I was already at my car when I realized that I had forgotten my car keys in the lab, so I went back in to get them.”  
“Couldn’t the night guard have gotten them for you?” Kowalski asked.  
Murron shrugged. “He was kind of asleep and I didn’t want to wake him.” Then a thought occurred to her. “He hasn’t been hurt, has he?”  
Benner shook his head. “He’s fine, Dr. Cross. He ran out when the alarms went off.”  
“Oh, good.” Murron was relieved. She liked Todd, he was a horrible security guard, but he always had a nice word for her.  
“You went back in to get your keys, Dr. Cross. What happened then?” Brenner got back to the matter at hand.  
“I went down to the lab, when I heard someone talking, but I couldn’t understand the words. I tried to get closer, and yes, I know how absolutely stupid that was, then I got hit over the head. That’s all that I can remember.” Murron finished. She didn’t dare look at the detectives to see if they believed her.  
“Someone was talking? Only one person?” Brenner wanted to know.  
“I…I think so. It was a male voice, he seemed very angry.” Murron stammered. It was all true. There had been a man talking in a strange language and he had been pissed off. And he had knocked her out. She merely had decided to not tell them about the second man. What would she tell them about him? That he had broken in the museum to kill a dead man with a sword? The words involuntary committed came to mind. And the best lies were those that contained some truth, her rather cynic of a grandfather always used to tell her.  
“But you didn’t see him or if he was talking to another person or over the phone?” Kowalski clarified.  
“No, I’m sorry.” Murron shook her head. Not her best idea, the headache acted up again. “Did they steal something?”  
“We don’t know yet, Dr. Cross. Whoever knocked you out, set fire to the building. The damage is extensive. Your colleagues are doing an inventory but that will take some time.” Brenner told her in what she found was a rather bored tone for such an occasion.  
“What? A fire? How bad is it?” Murron asked shocked and surprised. Some of the exhibits in the museum were worth millions, and utterly unreplaceable, this was a disaster. “I mean, why burn it down if you don’t want to cover up some theft?”  
“We’re sure that was the plan, but we also found a badly burned body in the building and since no one from the staff is missing, we’re currently assuming that the body is our burglar/arsonist.” Benner explained. Of course, burglary gone wrong, case closed.  
“Oh, okay.” Murron whispered. That made no sense. If the guy had died in a fire he had set, had he carried her outside and gone back in to die in there? What about the other one? Why weren’t they interested in finding a possible accomplice? After all, she did remember that the dead guy had lost his head, and cutting it off himself would be quite hard. She knew of course that there had been a second guy, and she was pretty sure he had taken her outside, but the police didn’t. Or so she assumed. Where they trying to set her up? Her head started to hurt again.  
“We leave you to your rest now, Dr. Cross. The doctors tell us they will release you in the morning. Thank you for your help.” Benner said and offered his hand. When she shook it, Murron noticed a tattoo on the man’s wrist. A circle with a stylized letter in it. Weird. Benner didn’t strike her as the kind of guy who would wear ink on his skin.

After returning to his hotel room, Methos slept half the day. Taking a Quickening so old could do that to him. Once he had managed to get up he ordered lunch from room service and hit the shower again. Half an hour later he felt halfway human again. While he waited for his lunch, he checked various news channels for anything concerning the museum and the mess he had made there. He found quite a lot. There was a lot of speculation, of course, but the official facts were thus: someone broke into the building and attacked an employee, that would have been Cross, through her name wasn’t mentioned, vandalized the museum, but didn’t steal anything it seemed. Then a fire broke out, how was still unclear, Methos snorted at that, and the burglar had been caught in the conflagration and died, burned beyond recognition. The police was now trying to identify him through DNA sample and dental records.  
Good luck with that, Methos thought and shut the TV off. No mention of the dead guy being a head short. That smelled of the Watchers, or the cops finally got smart. He would have preferred to get rid of Djoser’s body himself, dumping it somewhere no one would ever find him. Making bodies disappear was always a pain, but when doing it himself, he hat least new that it had been done right. But now the police could take care of that for him. Djoser would remain a John Doe for the rest of eternity, a worse fate couldn’t befall a Pharaoh of Kemet. How fitting, he thought, surprised that the thought also made him somehow sad.  
With a sigh he stood up, now that his business here was concluded it was time for him to arrange for his return to his home near Rome. After living in near poverty as graduate student Adam Pierson, he had decided to treat himself to a more luxurious life this time around. A villa a few miles outside of the eternal city had caught his eye, he had bought it, making some modifications to suit his needs. He now went by the name Alessandro Letta, an eccentric artist, known to a selected few for his excellent paintings. Who needed global fame when he had a few deep-pocketed admirers who bought everything he made before it was even done?  
The Watchers were still looking for him in all the wrong places. He had heard Amy Zoll had nearly ripped Joe’s head off when he told her that Methos had given them all the slip. He sent e-mails to the old Watcher once a year or so, to tell him he was still in one piece. He had no intentions of letting them find him for the next century at least. It wouldn’t do to make it too easy for the kids, now would it?  
That’s why he had decided to lay low in his hotel room for a few days. By now the Watchers had to know that the fire had been started by a Quickening, the headless body alone was a dead giveaway. They were bound to be looking for the victorious Immortal. Which meant that they kept an especially close eye in the borders and airports.  
He would enjoy room service for a couple of days and then make his way across the Canadian border, from where he would get a flight to Rome. Modern transportation, you just had to love it.

Paris, France  
“Hey, Joe.” MacLeod, greeted his friend and Watcher. It was still early in the day and Les Blues Bar wasn’t officially open yet, but since Methos had disappeared on them, the Highlander spent more and more of his time here. Because Joe was the only one who received mail from the oldest Immortal on a semi-regular basis.  
“Hey, Mac,” Joe replied, his eyes glued to the TV screen mounted in one corner over the bar.  
Mac was taken slightly aback by the fact that Joe didn’t even look at him. “What’s got you so interested?” he asked and looked at the screen. It was a news report on a fire in the Semitic Museum at Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts. The Scot had read about it, the loss of historic artefacts was staggering and the wildest theories were going around. Mac hadn’t paid it any more attention. It was a huge loss, but there was nothing he could do about it. “They still don’t know who did it?” he asked.  
“They? No. We, on the other hand, have at least a few suspects,” Joe replied with a grim smile. “Because what the public doesn’t know is that the body they found in the burn out remains is missing his head.”  
“Who?” Mac asked immediately. He didn’t know of any of his friends being there, but you never knew.  
Joe shrugged. “We don’t know that yet. Nor do we know who the other one was. The Immortals living in and around Boston are all accounted for and neither was in a challenge as far as we can tell. It could have been a couple of floaters, that’s the working theory, at least.” Floaters were Immortals that never stayed in one place for long, like Amanda. Even nowadays, there were quite a few of them around, and keeping Watchers on them was rather hard and risky.  
“To cause so much damage it had to be an old and powerful Immortal.” Mac mused, he didn’t finish his though, he didn’t have to.  
“Last I heard from the Old Man he was in Tokyo.” Joe replied.  
“He told you?” Mac asked surprised.  
Joe chuckled. “No, not in so many words, but he wrote me a mail telling me to offer his condolences to Dr. Zoll for not getting that book she was after, which had been sold in Tokyo.”  
“I bet that went down well.” Mac had to grin. The Old Man couldn’t help himself, he just had to rub it in. Sometimes he had pity with Dr. Zoll.  
“I haven’t gotten around to it yet.” Joe said. And he probably never would. For someone who was the head of the Methos Chronicles, Zoll reacted pretty allergic to anything coming from the old Immortal. But then, no one ever said it had to make sense. “Our man in the police department over there didn’t find anything useful so far, but he’s a stubborn SOB, if there is anything to find, he will find it.

Cambridge, USA  
After she had been released from the hospital, Murron took a cap back to the museum. The sight was…horrible. She saw several of her colleagues carrying boxes and crates out of the burnt-out ruin to security trucks parked in front of the building. They all looked less than happy.  
“Hey, Murron, how are you doing?” Steve Kelly asked when he saw her standing in front of the building.  
Murron ran a hand over the adhesive bandage covering half her forehead, it had taken ten stitches to close the wound there. “I’m good, thanks. Is the damage really as great as it looks?”  
Steve nodded. “Pretty much. Only the things down in the cellar are still intact. We’re transferring them now across the campus. Beltmann says it hasn’t been decided yet if and when the museum is being rebuilt.”  
“But they have to, our work is too important to let a fire end it.” Murron exclaimed shocked. The thought that the museum might not be rebuilt had never occurred to her.  
“You’re right, and we all hope for the best, but even if the rebuild it, it will take some time and loads of money. No one can come up with that kind of cash overnight. We’re all going to look for new work once we cleaned everything out.” Steven said. He sounded as unhappy with the idea as she felt.  
Murron sighed. She was not looking forward to that. She sucked as job interviews, she never had any witty answers to these stupid questions they liked to ask. “You need a hand with that?” she asked. The least she could do was to make herself useful. She had thought about trying to find the mystery man, but where would she start? She didn’t know his name or where he was from, though he did have a bit of a British accent, she knew what he looked like but that wasn’t going to help her. And she was sure that he wouldn’t take kindly to tacking a drawing of his face with a Have you seen this man? On every pole in the city. He had no problem killing someone, that he had proven. She still didn’t know why he hadn’t killed her too.  
“Are you sure you’re allowed to do that?” Steve asked skeptical.  
“They let me out, didn’t they?” Murron asked back. She had gotten hit over the head, yes, she could still carry a box.  
“That they did. Okay, you can help carry the light stuff, but don’t overdo it.” Steve relented.

It was a pleasant evening, so Murron had decided to walk home. In the last two days she had helped clean out the storage cellars of the museum, now only the really big pieces were left, including the sarcophagus, and the Egyptians wanted that one back asap, they would be removed by a company with the necessary equipment. As a little thank you for their hard work in the last days, Professor Beltmann had invited them all to dinner at a fancy and unbelievable expensive restaurant.  
It had been a nice evening and probably the last one they were all together. Beltmann had told them that the museum would be restored eventually, but it would take at least two years, probably longer, and that they should all find other work in the meantime.  
With a heavy heart, Murron said her goodbyes. Tomorrow she would start sending out her resume, hoping that some museum or university would take her. If only they had had been able to work on the sarcophagus a bit, that would have looked really good on her vita, even empty. She still had a hard time accepting that the man lying inside had been dead and then come back to life. It would have been easy to chalk it all up to her concussion and say she all imagined it, but she knew that wasn’t case, it had really happened. And that frightened her. It also roused her curiosity. Was it possible that the man had been alive four thousand years ago? And that the other man had been too? Because it had been pretty obvious that they had each other.  
Murron strolled down the street, in no hurry to return to her little apartment when she saw a man step out of the entrance of the hotel at the far corner. At first, she didn’t know what had drawn her attention to him, he wasn’t the only one about at this time. But when he stepped under a streetlight she could make out his face. It was the man from the museum! No doubt about it.  
Without conscious thought, she stepped closer. Here was the chance to get some answer, and by God she would get them.

Methos stood outside the hotel, waiting for the valet to bring his rental car around. He had already arranged with the rental company that he could return it in Montreal from where his flight was leaving for Italy. He could have gotten a flight at a closer airport, sure, but he preferred to put some borders between him and the Boston Police. And it would make him harder to track should the Watchers put two and two together. He ahd been flying in and been staying here under one of his older identities, one that he would have to burn now, and he would fly out under another one. Officially Alessandro Lett had never been on this continent.  
Suddenly he felt someone coming close to him. When he looked up she saw Dr. Cross walking towards him, a look of determination of her face. So much for a quiet get-away. With a sigh he turned back but his car was nowhere in sight. Seemed like he wasn’t getting out of this.  
Cross stopped right in front of him, and then didn’t seem to know what to say. She merely stared at him.  
“It’s very rude to stare, Dr. Cross.” Methos finally said when it became obvious that she wasn’t going to.  
“What are you?” she suddenly blurted out. Thankfully in a near whisper, and thankfully, no one else was close by. There really were better places than the side of a street for this kind of conversations.  
“You’re not very big on small-talk, are you?” Methos asked in a calm voice. Finally, the valet came with his car. Too late, but it was probably a bit much to ask for a psychic valet when he needed one. The young man go out of the car and handed the keys over to Methos and then gave Cross a long appreciative look. One she replied with a very icy one herself. The valet beat a hurried retreat. Methos couldn’t blame the man. Cross was a good looking woman, average height, slim, long blonde hair, though he personally thought she would look better as a brunette.  
Cross stepped closer to him, invading his personal space. “You owe me an explanation. I didn’t rat you out to the cops.” She stated. Her eyes and voice having reached the same temperature near the absolute freezing point.  
“Actually, no, I don’t” Methos replied and threw his bags onto the backseat of his car. “Do yourself a favor, Dr. Cross, and attribute everything you saw, or thought you saw, to your very severe concussion.”  
“Not a chance. I know what I saw was no hallucination, and I want to know the truth.” Cross insisted.  
“No one wants to know the truth, Dr. Cross.” Methos stated and got behind the wheels of his car. Before he could even close the door, Cross was around the car and got in on the passenger side. Her adamant look told the Old Man that the only way to get her out again was to bodily remove her. With a long suffering sigh he started the ignition.  
“Is it a hobby of yours to jump into the cars of complete strangers?” He asked as he drove from the curb. “That can be very dangerous.”  
“No, it’s not a hobby of mine, and I know how dangerous that is, but I figured, that if you wanted me dead, you would simply have left me in the museum to burn.” Murron replied.  
“How awfully trusting of you.” Methos muttered. “Seatbelt.” He reminded her and she hurried to fasten it.  
“Where are we going?” Murron asked after a minute of dead silence.  
“Well, I’m heading north, but if you tell me where your apartment is, I’ll drop off.” Methos said. He was thinking very hard what to tell her. She was smart enough to figure some things out of herself, he had to figure out how much he could safely tell her without endangering himself and his entire race.  
“Oh, no. You’re not getting out of this so easy. Thanks to you I’m out of a job.” Now she was getting pissed. Good, he could deal with pissed.  
“How exactly is that my fault? In case you have forgotten, Djoser attacked me.” He pointed out. Ah, fuck, that just slipped out.  
“Djoser? That’s…was his name? And yes, it’s your fault and his and that freaky lightshow. What was that anyway? And how can a dead man rise from his sarcophagus, in which he was for thousands of years, by the way, and be up and about like nothing happened?” Now the questions were purring out of her, like she was afraid if she stopped she would never get a chance to ask them again.  
And if he had a say in the matter, she wouldn’t. “You ask too many questions, Dr. Cross.” Methos cut her off. “I will tell you this, Djoser and I had unfished business between us, and it’s been dealt with now. And yes, we’re different, leave it at that, please. It’s a very private matter.”  
Cross stared at him. “You really aren’t giving me anymore, are you?”  
“No,” Was his only reply.  
Cross stewed a few minutes before sighing. “Fine, if I don’t get anymore, you can drive me home. I live across town on Main Street.”  
Methos nodded that he had understood. He knew that Cross wouldn’t give this up, this now was only a tactical retreat. She would keep digging, though she wouldn’t find much and if she came too close to the truth, the Watchers would make her an offer she wouldn’t be able to refuse. That was one of their usual recruiting techniques, after all.  
Methos dropped her off in front of her apartment building. He had made certain no one had been following them. He had no doubt that the police or the Watchers or both would keep her under observation for a while, but they wouldn’t harm her, that was not their style.  
He left the city behind quickly, there was not much traffic at this time of the night. He would cross the border in a few hours and then he could put this whole mess behind him.

Murron was angry at herself. She shouldn’t have let the man brush her off like that. She still didn’t know his name, but now she could find out. The hotel had the information and she would get it from them, pretending to be a friend or something like that, the valet could confirm her story, more or less. That would give her a starting point.  
For now she wrote everything down she remembered about him and what he had told her, which wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. She would like to devote her entire time to solving this mystery of men living for thousands of years, where there women too, but she knew all too well that she needed a new job, that was her priority. The bills didn’t pay themselves after all.

Good twenty-four hours later, Methos was home again. And not too soon, Alessandro had an appointment with Signora DiNardo, and one did not keep a woman like that waiting. He took a quick shower, changed into fresh clothes and drove into Rome.  
He had seen the city rise and fall so many times, he sometimes wondered that people were still willing to live here. But then, mortals were surprisingly resilient. They always stood up again, no matter how many times you threw them down.  
Kronos had never understood that, and he had forgotten that too, from time to time, but he had learned it again, and that was the reason he had managed to keep his head for so long, by learning.  
One day, maybe, MacLeod would leant too, then Methos would consider telling him some more about his past, maybe.  
End


End file.
